


Playing Dirty

by goingdownin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, John runs his own experiment, John's experiment is not in fact at all scientific, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock decides there should be a ban on talking to Lestrade, Sherlock is about to lose his everlasting mind, Sherlock is befuddled at John's attempts at science, and plays a bit dirty, and turned on, bottom!John, in case the explicit rating didn't give it away, so that would explain why Sherlock is puzzled, there is smut here so be ready for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:53:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8215495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingdownin221b/pseuds/goingdownin221b
Summary: Sherlock is always so concerned with keeping up the impression that he is beyond mere mortals. Cold. Distant. Never affected. Not in the least interested in pursuits such as emotions or sexual relationships.
John would like to call his bluff. So he gives Sherlock a taste of his own medicine: it's time he ran an experiment of his own.





	1. Chapter 1

“That was _never-ending._ ” Sherlock was complaining the moment they were over the threshold of 221B, before the door was even closed. He took off his scarf with snippy movements, oozing irritation. “John.”

“Mmm?” John was more than a little tipsy, and therefore completely immune to Sherlock being an arse. He was currently trying to maintain his balance as he removed his jacket and his shoes at the same time, but the wall he was bracing himself on kept moving. 

“Why did you make me do that?”

“Didn’t _make_ you do anything,” John mumbled, completely without affect. He dove for the couch like an Olympic swimmer, but was notably less graceful.

Sherlock sighed and crossed to the kitchen. “I’ll make tea. You’re completely pissed.”

“Lestrade,” John said by way of explanation. He was sprawled out on his back on the couch, which meant that Sherlock was going to have to do some rearranging of legs to commandeer his favored corner.

Sherlock didn’t bother responding. He waited a long while for the kettle to boil, then poured their cups and prepared them in the kitchen rather than bring the whole setup into the sitting room. He made sure to give himself an unhealthy dose of sugar to get the taste of lager out of his mouth. Vile.

He brought John his cup, setting it down on the coffee table the way it was. The nice thing about John pissed was that he didn’t moan about such trivialities as saucers or coasters. Then he nudged John’s feet over by displacing them with his bottom. John bent his knees without complaint and allowed Sherlock to settle in.

“What were you two whispering about anyway? Like a couple of schoolboys,” Sherlock said disdainfully.

What John heard was not disdain, but jealousy. Once upon a time he would have missed that and this conversation would have immediately devolved into defensiveness and petty quarreling. Now he knew that this was just Sherlock’s obscure way of expressing his possessiveness over John. He was a bit like a cat; heaven forbid John should pet anyone else in the room. Or um…well, he was pretty sure that he shouldn’t express it that way out loud.

John regarded Sherlock for a moment with a look that suggested he didn’t think Sherlock could handle the contents of his conversation with the DI, which rankled Sherlock. Now he _had_ to know. He raised an eyebrow and exuded annoyance.

“Not your area,” John said opaquely. “You wouldn’t want to know.”

“I think I have conveyed quite clearly, in that I asked about it, that I _would_ want to know.”

John slouched down comfortably, his toes prodding at Sherlock’s thigh, and hummed the pleased little laugh he seemed to reserve for times of absolute drunkenness. Sherlock found it endearing, but he would certainly never _tell_ John that. 

“What’s so amusing?”

“Was just trying to imagine how you’d react if Lestrade’d tried to have that conversation with _you_ ,” John said, grinning dopily and pointing at him as if clarification was needed for “you.”

“Perhaps I could help you puzzle that out,” Sherlock over-enunciated. “You’re being cryptic. It’s irritating.”

“Al’right then. He and his wife are separated, yeah? Seeing other people. So Greg—“

“Who?”

John sighed. “Lestrade. You want me to tell you or not, you prat?”

Sherlock waved a hand with a distinct air of, _if you must,_ even though he’d seemed a hair trigger away from using the rack on John just moments earlier.

“He was telling me this woman he’s been seeing is a dirty talker. I can’t even repeat what she said to him.” John was absolutely gleeful.

Sherlock huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Is that all? How banal and crass. I suppose I should have expected no less.”

John blinked at him, one corner of his mouth quirking into a skeptical smile. “Oh, you’re so above all that, are you? Never had anyone talk dirty to you in bed, then?”

Sherlock had been sipping on his tea, and had to stop short in order not to choke at the direct nature of John’s question. For a moment he floundered, opening his mouth and finding he had nothing to say. He haughtily avoided meeting John’s eyes.

John struggled up on his elbows to get a better look at his friend. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, the wonderment clear in his tone. “I do believe you’re _blushing_.”

Sherlock scowled. “Nonsense. You’re drunk and unobservant.”

John flopped back down heavily, confident in his assessment of Sherlock’s discomfort. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“No, no one has ever—of course I haven’t,” he snapped.

John, at his most insufferable, picked up his teacup and brought it slowly to his mouth, thinking. 

There were several long moments of silence before Sherlock practically erupted. “Oh, spit it out!”

John set his cup back down and drew himself up to sitting, though he leaned heavily on his left hand and winced a little. His shoulder was playing up then, despite the alcohol. Sherlock was not particularly sympathetic at the moment.

John clapped his hands on his thighs as though reaching a decision. “I’m going to do an experiment,” he said as he stood and turned to give Sherlock an almost ominous once-over.

“Experiment?”

“Yes.”

“You are conducting an experiment?”

“Learned from the best.” John had already turned away. Sherlock watched him mount the stairs to his room, loathe to admit that he was suddenly filled with a niggling sense of trepidation.

~~~


	2. Chapter 2

~~~

John had rather bad timing. Or perhaps a sense of humor.

The experiment began while Sherlock was at a crime scene. He was surrounded by NSY’s finest, who had already been over the site. That meant that they had interfered with the integrity of the evidence, so Sherlock was doing twice the work he would normally have to do. It wasn’t hard—just severely annoying. Therefore, his fuse was short as he crouched over the body in the alley, absorbing every detail.

“I have told you,” he growled to Lestrade. “Always call me in _first._ ”

“Sherlock. I do have a job to perform, you know. That’s not always gonna be possible. Look, I get you in first as often as I can, but—“

Sherlock shushed him abruptly, sensing that Lestrade was merely about to repeat the same sentiment five different ways in a champion attempt to give him a migraine.

Sherlock had just homed in on something interesting on the woman’s neck when his pocket vibrated. He ignored it at first, but it kept going. He rolled his eyes and pulled the cursed device known as his mobile from his pocket, observing with a modicum of surprise that it was John. John never rang; he texted. Nothing perked Sherlock up faster than a break from routine. He accepted the call.

“What?” Sherlock prompted, squinting at the body before him and fumbling into his pocket one-handed for his magnifier.

 _“Oh God,”_ John’s voice was pitched in a way Sherlock had never heard it before, low and breathy and desperate. _“Sherlock, yes, fuck me…right…there….”_ A quick gasp, and a moan which was cut off by John hanging up.

Sherlock felt all the blood leave his face, his whole body flushing hot with shock and adrenaline. He froze over the body, eyes going wide. His cock twitched with interest in his trousers.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked tentatively.

Sherlock swallowed hard, but his throat was dry. He stood in one fluid motion, hands shaking as he slid his phone back in one pocket, magnifier into the other. He spared the barest glance at Lestrade, stone-faced. “One moment.”

Lestrade gaped, his expression torn between confusion and complaint, but said nothing as Sherlock turned and strode down the alley and out of sight with a swish of his coat around the corner. 

He ducked into a little coffee shop less than a block down and made his way straight to the loo. It was equipped with two stalls, so not private, but it was unoccupied and would have to do. He had no other option. It was this, or he was afraid he’d come in his pants like a teenager. He was throbbing. He couldn’t recall when he’d last felt any sensation so demanding.

He shut himself in the first stall and fumbled with the lock, yanked his right glove off, and struggled with his fly and pants. He used his left hand to brace against the wall and took his cock, slippery with precome, in hand. His balls were already drawn up tight. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and stroked himself frantically over the toilet, John’s words replaying in his head. His voice, his breath… _Sherlock, yes, fuck me…._

It all happened in an instant. Four quick strokes and he was coming with the fifth, choking on his own breath as he fought to stay silent. His toes practically curled in his shoes as he pulsed forcefully again and again, thick white ropes of come splashing into the toilet. He hadn’t pleasured himself in ages and his body made it clear that he’d needed the release. It was fucking _glorious._

Finally, it ended. He opened his eyes to observe the mess he’d left in the bowl, trying to catch his breath.

Well.

That was something.

He cleaned off his hand and flushed, pulling himself back together just as he heard someone else enter the loo and approach the urinal.

Sherlock stayed where he was, gathering his wits. He wasn’t sure if the passion in John’s voice had held any truth or if he was only trying to prove his point, but the end result was the same. His anatomy apparently didn’t care either way.

And…would John really want to bottom for him?

Sherlock shivered, a little spark of lust threading through him anew. He’d fantasized about bottoming for John, never able to imagine for a second that John could bear to be anything but dominant in bed, were they ever to make it that far (which seemed highly unlikely). Now he had to rethink his fantasies. The idea of topping John was…well, actually rather arousing, as he’d just profoundly demonstrated.

Sherlock exited the stall and scrubbed his hands at the sink, glancing at himself in the mirror. Other than flushed cheeks, which he could explain away with the brisk air, he looked almost unruffled.

Almost. Which meant he was pulled together enough for any member of the Yard, unobservant as they were.

Sherlock went back to the crime scene, but the rest of the time he was there he was working on two problems: the murder, and John. The problem with John’s experiment was that he wasn’t around to see the result of today’s trial himself. Wasn’t that the _point?_ Why would he do this? He could have no idea if his words had had the intended effect. Frustrated, Sherlock worked until he couldn’t any longer. With a growl of irritation he gathered his samples and told Lestrade that he needed the night for analysis.

~~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick blip I forgot to post last night. More coming right up!

~~~

When Sherlock returned to the flat he found John in his chair with his laptop, working on a blog entry about some old case. Sherlock studiously ignored him and went to set up his samples on the table.

“Have a good evening?” John called mildly, not looking up from his screen. “Interesting case?"

Sherlock leaned against the frame of the sliding door meant to partition the kitchen from the rest of the flat, and regarded John with narrowed eyes.

John finally looked up at him, eyebrows raised as he awaited the answer to his question. He picked up the green mug that held his tea and drank, still watching Sherlock over the rim.

Ah. So _this_ was the game they were playing. Sherlock turned back around without a word and returned to the table, where he began laying out the equipment he would need. It was going to be a long, sleepless night. Usually his favorite kind. Damn John.

~~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's not finished yet. Sherlock's just getting started.

~~~

The second incident happened during the NSY Christmas party. Sherlock would later reflect, with dismay, that pulling stunts in front of the Yard seemed to be John’s “control” for this experiment.

There was all the typical disgusting fanfare: mistletoe, Christmas lights, Evergreen in its various forms of wreath and garland. Sherlock had never understood the notion that decoration should equal sentiment. People, even those who were not religious, viewed this time of year as “special.” John fell in neatly alongside everyone else: the veritable army of gung-ho gift-givers and wassailers. John was also the only reason Sherlock was present this evening. His friend knew quite well that, left to his own devices, Sherlock would rather stay in his mind palace for the full month of December. Possibly through the first week of January as well. Or just until whenever there weren’t red and green trinkets adorning every shop window, and hungover people lurching around lying to themselves about never drinking so much again.

NSY had reserved a long table at a restaurant—not a particularly great restaurant, but homey, probably exactly the sort of place where ordinary people felt comfortable. Sherlock shifted on his hard chair while others mingled and laughed and pulled Christmas crackers and made general fools of themselves. He was surfing the web on his mobile, waiting for the inevitable moment when John would scold him for not joining in on “the fun.” 

One thing the place did have was top-shelf liquor. On the NSY’s tab. Sherlock felt a bit warm from the whiskey.

When Sherlock did receive the inevitable nudge from John, it was not in the way he had anticipated. 

_Ding!_

A text icon made its appearance at the top of Sherlock’s screen. 

He made the mistake of tapping it.

_If I sat next to you and slid my hand up your thigh under the table, would you get hard for me?_

Sherlock blinked at this, then looked up and searched for John in the crowd. He spotted him chatting away casually with Molly, gesturing with his drink, seeming not to have a care in the world. But his hand was in his pocket, Sherlock noted. The pocket where he always kept his mobile. He had only just put it away.

 _He might as well have a remote control to my cock in there,_ Sherlock thought, releasing a loud sigh.

John glanced over after a moment, as though he sensed Sherlock’s gaze fixed on him in what the detective hoped was an unnerving fashion. Their eyes met, and both men silently acknowledged they were playing the game, but each had his best poker face on. Nevertheless the tension there was taut, as though Sherlock could draw his bow across the air between them. John did not give his thoughts away, but he seemed to be mentally taking a note. For a moment Sherlock experienced a sensation he was entirely unfamiliar with: he felt transparent. He believed that John knew that even if the restaurant were to go up in flames at this moment, he would not be able to stand without demonstrating that he was in the process of sliding off his high horse. 

They both looked away at the same moment, Sherlock fervently wishing he had his Belstaff to hand. That was another problem with formality and tradition—they had a way of becoming part of the silliest things. Did anyone really become incapable of carrying their own coat the moment they stepped into a restaurant? But John had given him one of those “you’re doing something wrong socially” looks when it seemed he was going to get difficult about handing his coat over to be checked at the door.

“Just don’t blame me if you get pickpocketed,” Sherlock had muttered under his breath, just loud enough for John alone to hear.

Anyway, he couldn’t have done anything even if he did have it. It would be suspicious if he left the party immediately upon receiving that text. 

He wanted to look at it again, in fact, but now he worried that if he so much as glanced at his phone John would suspect he was doing just that. He replayed the wording of the message in his head. _For me,_ John had said. Not, “would you get hard,” full stop. _For me._ John may have his poker face on, but it seemed he was showing his hand.

Or was that wishful thinking on Sherlock’s part?

He wondered if he was going to have to grow accustomed to being perpetually erect. He was absolutely desperate.

Sherlock looked over at John again, this time surreptitiously. He was talking to Lestrade, of course, which was what had started this whole mess to begin with. There should be a ban on talking to Lestrade, Sherlock decided.

But John looked…well, there was his frumpy sweater and his plaid shirt underneath, his standard-issue jeans and his non-date shoes. So he looked much as he normally did. He looked fantastic. Sherlock imagined pulling that cable knit sweater off him and sucking John’s neck with sudden, firm pressure until he left a mark. One that could not be easily hidden. He thought of nipping his earlobe and retaliating with some dialogue of his own.

What would he even say? There was the obvious: _I want to fuck you._ Or simply, _I want you right now._ How boring. None of the standard issue pillow talk would do. Sherlock steepled his fingers against his lips and stared a hole through the table, considering the problem. What he really wanted to tell John was, _Every day when you walk in the front door I feel as if I’ve been taken off pause and everything in me comes to life, running red and warm, thrumming and pounding. Colors are brighter. Experiments are more interesting. If I seem to ignore you it’s because you’ve inspired me to care. And if it’s been raining on your way home the thought will inevitably cross my mind that I’d like to lick every rain drop off you, from your eyelashes and your neck and your lips. I want to fall down in front of you and have you in my mouth, throw you across my bed and tease you so thoroughly I inspire you to try ten different sex acts to completion before you’re even remotely sated. I want my tongue on your skin, my fingers inside you, the percussion of your breath against my neck as you cry out with pleasure. I want to make you scream my name and forget you ever knew any other._

But surely he couldn’t just come right out with all of that. 

He was not helping his problem to go away. Sherlock adjusted himself in his trousers subtly under the table.

_Ding!_

Sherlock actually groaned. He dug his phone back out, bracing for more torture.

_Uncomfortable? I looked this place up online beforehand and studied the photo gallery so I’d know exactly where the loo is. If you need a hand._

Oh God, terrible puns were apparently next on John’s bulleted list of surefire ways to drive his best friend insane. 

And now he was thinking of John dawdling over his laptop before they’d left the flat. Sherlock had assumed he was still working on his blog entry and had made a show of pacing in front of the door. “John, my reluctant acquiescence has an expiration date. Which is today.”

But no. He’d been doing…that.

 _Fuck_ , he was so hard.

 _Okay,_ Sherlock thought. _Point made, John. Your dirty talk, while appalling, has some merit. It must work well for you on the boring parade of women you insist on wasting your time with._

He shot a quick text back: _I'm fine, thanks._

He caught the waiter glancing over at him from across the restaurant, and beckoned him over. He ordered another whiskey. If he couldn’t leave here with his dignity intact, he at least wanted not to have to remember it.

He somehow managed to gain a semblance of control before they finally left the restaurant. They were silent as Sherlock hailed a cab, and remained silent all during the ride home. It hung between them, the knowledge of that text sitting on Sherlock’s mobile. The quiet was not strained or uncomfortable, but it felt laden with meaning. Sherlock wondered if John thought he was angry with him, and then further wondered whether he should encourage the suspicion or not.

Immediately upon arriving back at 221B, Sherlock retired to his room. He undressed and lay on his bed without moving until he heard John’s bedsprings creak above him. Then he fished his lubricant from the drawer of his nightstand and slowly went about fingering himself open, imagining he was touching John instead, considering what felt best. He hadn’t got off this way in ages and he took his time about it now, stifling a moan when he found his prostate, making his cock weep slick precome. He thought about the sounds John might make, and suddenly hated every girlfriend his flatmate had ever had with an undying vengeance. They surely hadn’t needed John the way he did, or understood him as well. They wouldn’t have sipped every moan directly from his lips while pleasuring him two different ways with their hands simultaneously. 

Sherlock was almost past his breaking point. He slid his fingers from himself and fucked his tight fist feverishly to the memory of meeting John’s eyes in the restaurant while he was hard under the table. John had done that to him, and he _knew_ he’d done that to him, and that had been the whole point. Sherlock shivered hard. He twisted lightly on the upstroke, and It occurred to him that the walls were thin enough that John might theoretically be able to hear him. 

He didn’t have to worry about it for long, because it was that idea that made him come with a sharp gasp, suppressing the urge to cry out John’s name. The universe seemed to open up and swallow him whole, as though he'd touched the face of something unknowable. He was offered oblivion, and he took it, and the only thing he thought to take with him into that darkness was the thought of John. The one sliver of light, the common denominator to every day he passed feeling happy. It was a hell of an orgasmic haze.

He slept well.

~~~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have their inevitable confrontation. It's the tipping point....

~~~

Their suspect this time around was a neurophysicist. Apparently a brilliant one, who Sherlock had heard of previously. (He’d probably read every book by the guy in alphabetical order, John thought drily.) The detective was rather amusing in his excitement over it. John had to admit that the name did ring a bell even to him, though neurology was not his field of study.

Sherlock insisted on sitting in while their suspect gave a lecture at the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh, which necessitated what was going to be at the very least an overnight hotel stay, depending on how things panned out the next day. 

During said lecture Sherlock hung on every word with his eyes bright, which was about as much exuberance as the man ever outwardly displayed. John, affectionately amused by the outpouring of Sherlock’s ever-so-intermittent _joie de vivre_ , sat patiently even though it was like listening to a computer talk as far as he was concerned. He almost wished the suspect would run off the stage and stab him so they could get this over with. Instead they went on sitting, uneventfully, in an endless sea of outwardly stolid women and balding men whose idea of cutting loose was probably watching their knuckle hair grow.

John thought of all the times Sherlock had ever interrupted him in the midst of something important or interesting or _fun_ , all because he couldn’t stand John being absorbed with anything but _him_ : waiting for the next impossible deduction, calling him amazing and brilliant. 

Sherlock was oblivious while John savored a growing inclination toward getting up to mischief. It had been a full week since the Christmas party, and there had not been another incident. Sherlock wasn’t sure if John had grown bored, or forgotten about the “experiment” altogether, or if he had overheard Sherlock after all and felt so uncomfortable with it that he decided to call the whole thing off. He considered all the possibilities subconsciously as he absorbed the lecture. Shame their scientist would shortly be analyzing jail cells rather than brain cells. He really did have a novel perception of computational neuroscience….

John was bored. It was palpable, and distracting. He shifted restlessly in his chair, as out of place in this setting as Sherlock was at the ludicrous social gatherings John regularly coerced him into attending. Eventually John leaned over and whispered, “Got any gum?”

Sherlock almost snorted. Since when did he chew _gum?_ For that matter, when did _either_ of them? He shot John a sidelong glance which clearly communicated these thoughts, and John settled back in his chair with a sigh, folding his arms across his chest. There was a restless energy rolling off him, as though he wanted to jiggle his leg or tap his fingers with impatience.

After about five minutes had elapsed, John tilted over toward him again and Sherlock, with the world’s most herculean show of patience, humored John by likewise leaning in--as if he had any interest to spare at the moment.

“Has anyone ever bent you over and fucked you so hard that you couldn’t even moan without your breath shaking from the impact?” John whispered conversationally.

Sherlock froze completely, and John pretended he wasn’t observing him out of the corner of his eye. The man had gone completely pale. He looked either stricken dumb with surprise, or horrified. It was hard to say which. John hoped it was the former. He shifted in his chair again and folded his hands in his lap to twiddle his thumbs, a perfect picture of “nothing happening here.” He pursed his lips and tried to appear intently focused on the lecture.

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock casually crossed his legs and angled his hips away from John, pulling his coat tighter around himself.

John again observed him peripherally. The color had returned to his friend’s face, and the flush on those high cheekbones was lovely. 

Sherlock’s eyes closed for a long moment, and John took advantage of this to turn his head slightly and look at him more closely. Sherlock was biting his lower lip. His hand was in the pocket of his coat. It shifted, just once, and John tried to tell himself that Sherlock was absolutely _not_ touching or adjusting himself right now. No, he absolutely did not have his hand on his cock in any sense.

His experiment was beginning to backfire on him. This time when John shifted in his chair it was for an entirely different reason than boredom or lack of a cushion, and he quickly began thinking of all the nastiest things he’d ever seen while working at the clinic.

He frowned internally at himself. This wasn’t how this was supposed to work. He was supposed to be teaching Sherlock a lesson for looking down on others. Sure, his feelings for his flatmate were…erm…complicated, but John wasn’t actually saying any of these things with _intent_ , was he? The whole point, after all, was dirty talk in general. Didn’t matter who it came from.

_So why does this feel so much like flirting?_

The answer came back swiftly: _Because something’s been going on between us for a long, long time. And because you’re currently fighting not to pitch a tent in your pants, you dolt._

Sherlock had opened his eyes, and John played dumb once more.

~~~

Nothing could be done immediately following the lecture, so John and Sherlock left the university with no particular goal in mind. John was dead exhausted, truth be told, and he wouldn’t mind just going back to their hotel room and—

“Dinner?”

John gaped at Sherlock in surprise, thrown off firstly by Sherlock’s chipper mood, and secondly by the fact that his friend wanted to eat for once. “Um, sure. Right. Where to?”

Sherlock took them to a place so grand it looked like it could have been an extension of the university. It was called “The Dome.” It was a very Greek-looking building faced with intimidating Corinthian columns that gave John vertigo just to look at. The front doors were glass, with a pair of griffins facing away from each other set in stone like guardians over the entryway.

There was only more opulence to be found inside: planted palms everywhere, a grand chandelier, enormous white flower arrangements. The ceiling was high, its pinnacle the eponymous glass dome. John took it all in with his mouth gaping a bit. “Uh, Sherlock…are you sure we can afford this place?”

Sherlock, having anticipated the question, flashed a card at John over his shoulder without bothering to so much as glance backwards. A card John recognized as Mycroft’s.

“Ah,” John said, pleased. “Lead the way.”

“This is the former Commercial Bank of Scotland,” Sherlock muttered when John fell into step beside him. 

“No wonder, then.”

“Yes, well. It’s been upgraded, naturally. It used to be rather stuffy.”

“Have you been here before?”

“Years ago. While in Uni.” Sherlock said this dismissively, making it clear that he’d rather not pursue any discussion of that period in time. John, accustomed to such roadblocks, said nothing more.

They were seated in what had been dubbed “The Club Room.” The walls were mirrored, heightening the effect of further flower arrangements and multiple chandeliers--smaller than the first one they’d seen upon making their entrance. The round tables were set with white linen and fine glassware, each in a sort of half-booth of its own which was backed with soft, dark brown leather paneling. The fully cushioned chairs looked as sleek as if they’d been molded from squares of warm chocolate. When John was seated he practically groaned with how at ease his muscles suddenly were, especially when comparing his seat to the chairs at the lecture hall. Sherlock, naturally, took the lush spot against the leather booth directly opposite John. He smirked when he saw the relief on John’s face. “Comfortable, then?”

“Don’t move me from this spot until I die,” John affirmed. He ended up ordering the red-wine braised beef shin daube, and Sherlock the pan-fried duck breast. To complement everything, Sherlock ordered some fancy French wine whose name John couldn’t even begin to pronounce. There were no prices listed on the menu, he noted, which meant that they would be atrocious. Mycroft might raise an eyebrow, but in truth he’d never miss the money.

“Well,” John said as the waiter went to fetch their wine, “this is all rather nice. It’s a shame we’re not on a proper holiday.”

“You wouldn’t want to be on holiday with me, John,” Sherlock said placidly, leaning back against the booth and preemptively smoothing his napkin over his lap. “You know I wouldn’t be able to sit still for a day.”

“Good thing I didn’t pursue living with you because I was seeking daily relaxation and routine,” John said humorously, smiling warmly at his friend. This only lasted a moment before he abruptly looked away, watching for their waiter to return. 

Sherlock had settled his gaze on John, but he did not look away. He stared and stared, his soft eyes and calm expression giving away nothing. The tips of his steepled fingers met the center of his bottom lip, and he just sat that way placidly until the wine was poured.

Their food came quickly. The hour was late and it was either a slow time, or after the usual dinner rush. Sherlock and John chatted amiably about the case and the upcoming involvement of the police and how they would handle that, being that they were out of the Yard’s territory and had no lenient friends on the inside of the legal system here.

Sherlock waited until they were on their third glass of wine.

~~~

John felt something land on his foot under the table. He furrowed his brow at first, then realized what it had been and stifled the impulse to lift the tablecloth and see. Sherlock was merely stretching out a bit, and he had rather long legs.

“It’s been a long day,” Sherlock said mildly. “Are you tired?”

“Mm.” John took another bite. “Not overly,” he lied. “Could definitely do with some sleep, but I’m not about to drop or anything. You? Will you sleep tonight?”

“Being that we aren’t at the flat,” Sherlock said—

And that was odd. There it was again, the careless press of Sherlock’s foot under the table. John straightened up a bit in his chair to give him more room. Sherlock wasn’t known for respecting anyone else’s space, after all. Again, he was like a cat that way.

“—with any of my ongoing experiments to hand, or my violin, or anything else with which to keep my idle hands occupied, I suppose I might. I’ll certainly lie down.”

For some reason John felt a faint blush tint his cheeks when Sherlock mentioned “idle hands.” He cleared his throat and drank some wine and inwardly rolled his eyes at himself for being such a fainting violet. 

“Yeah,” John agreed, sounding inane even to himself. “That would probably do you some good. Even if you don’t sleep. Bound to be a long day tomorrow.”

Sherlock sipped his wine. Set his glass aside. Slid his foot alongside John’s, and kept it there.

John stopped chewing, and swallowed hard, meeting Sherlock’s unsettling green gaze.

“So, John,” Sherlock said slowly. “How is your experiment going?”

“Aahh,” John said, flushing and grinning awkwardly. “My experiment. Yes. …Well, I suppose? You tell me.” He was practically giggling with discomfort.

“So shy,” Sherlock murmured, raising one brow and skating his shoe slowly upward until he’d hooked not only around John’s calf, but the leg of his chair. With one sharp tug he drew John in closer to the table, startling him. John braced himself against the table with his hands reflexively. “So shy for someone whose texts are so bold. For a man who calls me in the middle of a crime scene to moan in my ear.”

John, still flushing, glanced around at that as if afraid someone might overhear them. No one was close enough to listen.

“Shall I give you some tips on how to run a scientific experiment, John?” Sherlock asked, his voice deep and smooth and unbearably pleasing.

John licked his lips nervously and nodded to see where this was going.

“All right then. First, you research your subject. You had two subjects for this experiment, really: me—whom you already know quite well—and dirty talk. Which you are obviously sufficient at.”

John felt his temperature rise. Actually felt it. 

“So, that part you had down. And after research comes your _problem._ What problem were you trying to address?”

John hesitated, not certain for a moment whether Sherlock was really waiting for his answer. But Sherlock was watching him expectantly, so the answer to that seemed to be yes. “That um…you don’t seem to react to um….” _You’re a doctor, John, stop stuttering._ “To sexual stimuli the way…many people do. Specifically of the…aural variety, in this case.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled for a moment as though he might argue a point, but then he evidently decided not to pursue it. “All right. Very good, based on the data you had to go on. That was a reasonable assumption. And that brings us to the hypothesis. Your hypothesis was--?” Sherlock’s steepled hands flared outward in an gesture which said, _elucidate._

“That you’re not so above the rest of us. That at some point, you must react.”

“Not terribly concise,” Sherlock criticized rapidly. “But I’ll allow it. Next: experimentation. Any experiment of value has certain guidelines it must follow strictly. You need your independent variable, your controlled variables, and your dependent variable. This is where you strayed off the path of a reliable experiment by the widest margin.” Sherlock began to count off on his fingers as he built up steam. “Your independent variable: what changed in each step of your experiment? Here, it was your methodology. Phone call, text, and direct aural input. I’m quite impressed: it’s almost as though you did your research.” 

Sherlock paused here, but John kept smiling uncertainly, practically squirming in his chair. Sherlock had some mercy.

“Your controlled variables: each phase took place in public. Two in front of our friends at the Yard, the other here, today, while we were working. That wasn’t terribly careful—the different settings could sway results. None of these occurred in a closed environment. I was interacting with others, at times with the elements, and could have been under any number of stresses. All of which, independently, could sway results. So your control was not particularly controlled.”

Sherlock was, even now, doing curious things with his foot under the table, now sliding the tip of his shoe suggestively upward so that John’s jeans moved with them. Sherlock paused, slid his foot from his oxford, and traced against John’s shin with the tip of his sock.

John’s breath came faster. He suddenly realized he was clenching his fork like a weapon.

“But then,” Sherlock continued in an _I’ll grant you this_ tone, “I _am_ quite difficult to control.” 

John bit his lip.

“Last, you have your dependent variable, which is what’s being…” here, in a move that literally made John jump a bit in his chair, Sherlock placed his foot between John’s legs on the chair and traced over his groin. “Measured.”

John rubbed a hand over his mouth. He looked positively unhinged.

“Now, this is what I don’t understand. You never bothered to check on the end result at each phase. You weren’t directly present to see the effect you were having—not really—until today. And even then you really didn’t…get a look…did you?”

John shook his head briskly. Sherlock’s foot flexed and John actually whimpered both nervously and involuntarily. How embarrassing. 

Which made Sherlock grin like Lucifer himself for a moment. It quickly dropped away, but the light in his eyes was still dancing. 

“Last, you have your results and your conclusion. I will tell you,” here Sherlock’s voice lowered, “it was a…sensational,” he drew out the word, letting it drip deliberately from the tip of his tongue, “experiment in…some regards. And I concede your point—I _can_ react to the more rudimentary methods of inciting sexual arousal. But what you didn’t take into consideration was that if I physically responded it may not have been the content of what was said, but rather the speaker who caused the effect.”

John was staring at him, looking absolutely wrecked. “Oh?” he said weakly.

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked upward, pretending to mull it over. Then he met John’s eyes again. “Yes,” he said quite simply, as though he’d been asked whether or not he thought it might rain later in the day. “The last point I will make is _the_ final point. The one you cannot possibly think I would be incognizant of. The question at the heart of your experiment, John.”

“What’s that?” John asked haltingly, as if he was afraid to hear the answer.

“Will he, or won’t he, call my bluff.” Sherlock pressed his hands together as though in prayer once more and gently slid his foot from John’s lap (where John had thankfully been too nervous to work up any obvious physical reaction).

Sherlock dropped all pretense of his usual posture, drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table, leveled John with that never-ending stare, and said candidly, “I’m calling your bluff, John.”

~~~


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long! I really wanted to get it right, and so that meant reading it over and over again. I hope it's everything you would want!
> 
> Reviews basically keep me alive. <3 Thanks so so much for reading. I hope you'll stick with me for future adventures.

_I'm calling your bluff, John._

~~~

John stared back for just a beat too long, then chuckled falsely and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He jabbed the air with his finger. “I see what this is. Nice try. No, you’re just angry because you’re losing. You can never handle losing, Sherlock.”

To John’s surprise, his flatmate didn’t even put up a fight. “Hmm,” Sherlock sighed. “All right then.” He avoided further eye contact and flagged their waiter for the check.

John’s brow furrowed. Sherlock had switched so suddenly to his usual aloof self, all business, doing god knew what in that mind of his. Losing himself, leaving John behind while he went off wherever it was he went to.

John found himself suddenly feeling sick with regret.

~~~

By the time they had left The Dome to hail a cab for the ride back to their hotel, John was pretty sure Sherlock was royally pissed off at him. He was trying to think how to go about apologizing for his experiment, as it seemed he may have pushed his friend too far.

So he was completely thrown off his guard when, instead of hailing a cab, Sherlock grabbed the front of his jacket and hauled him into a darkened alleyway. With his characteristic air of intimidation he crowded John up against the side of a building, then leaned in so closely their noses were practically touching. Sherlock made no other move for a long moment, his catlike eyes meeting John’s with that piercing look.

“What…what are you doing?” John asked, wary but calm though he was still recovering from being pulled around like a rag doll. He bore this unusual turn of events the way he handled all of Sherlock’s impromptu stunts: curiously, but without batting an eye.

“I am running a counter-experiment.”

“Ah…okay.”

Sherlock moved so his mouth was positioned next to John’s ear. “Research: my flatmate John Watson. Done,” he murmured, and John tried to stifle a shudder brought on by the detective’s proximity and the very real feeling of the sudden, shared body heat. He was moderately successful. 

“Problem: John Watson has pushed me past my physical breaking point.” Here John actually felt Sherlock’s lips brush his ear, and he suddenly couldn’t draw enough air. “Hypothesis—“ Here Sherlock’s voice dropped to a whisper, “—he secretly wants me to do the same in turn.” 

John’s eyes closed as he felt Sherlock’s warm lips suck gently at his earlobe. A heavy breath escaped him. He felt the soft scrape of Sherlock’s teeth and dear Jesus fuck, he was already completely hard, despite the stoic front he’d managed to maintain at the restaurant. He mentally surrendered.

“Independent variables….” John felt Sherlock’s fingers brush his wrists, and the odder sensation of the stroke he followed through with, running the tips of his fingers down along John’s. “Variations on touch.” He found a place on John’s neck he must have found appealing, because he began to suck there firmly, tongue undulating softly against skin.

“Oh, God,” John whispered, unable to stop the small tremor that ran through him.

“Controlled variables…” Sherlock whispered over the tender place he had just marked, “persistence…” Sherlock found John’s wrists again and pinned them against the building. In the inadequate lighting, John was still able to see the detective’s lips curl in a mischievous smile. “Patience…” here he skated the tip of his nose lightly along John’s and once again paused. “Passion….” His voice had grown quieter and quieter, the sussurus of intense desire, his breath against John’s mouth.

He seemed to be waiting for something, and John was not in any mood to keep Sherlock waiting. He brushed his nose slowly against the detective’s in return, willing his friend to stop teasing and kiss him. He knew that he could make the next move himself, but all he wanted in that moment was for Sherlock to take control and in some way punish him thoroughly for torturing him. His stomach fluttered with deep, nervous excitement. It was a feeling he remembered experiencing at age ten, the first time he’d gone on a roller coaster. He had subsequently vomited, then begged to ride again. His unhealthy addiction to adrenaline had been born early. “Sherlock?—“

No sooner had John said his name than the gap was closed, and Sherlock was tentatively plucking at John’s lips with delicate, moist little kisses. It was the absolute worst way he could have gone about it, because John immediately couldn’t get enough. He chased Sherlock’s lips in return, brushing softly at them with the tip of his tongue each time he managed to capture one. Sherlock was shaking palpably, whether with nerves or anticipation or some combination of the two, John couldn’t tell, but the eagerness was evident. There was nothing else. John breathlessly found himself wondering if the other man’s cock was as hard as his. He was actually leaking with anticipation, his pants clinging to him.

Sherlock came forward again and there was barely time for John to register that this was more purposeful, and then there was the warm, wet give-and-take of their mouths together, tongues sliding slowly, each inhaling the other’s labored breathing and catching hints of the wine they'd had with dinner. John clutched at Sherlock’s arms as he was methodically taken apart by the insinuations of the kiss: by Sherlock’s tongue curling around the edges of his teeth and licking the roof of his mouth with one tantalizing point of gentle pressure that made John seriously wonder if he could come from this alone.

They must have gone on in that vein for ten minutes or more before finally parting after a couple of false starts and stops, and before either of them could think to catch his breath, Sherlock was tugging John urgently out to the street to flag down a cab, never letting go of his arm.

They stood for the next three minutes or so, not saying a word, looking up and down the street. Everything was quiet. Eventually John stamped his feet a bit in place and rubbed his hands together briskly to get his blood flowing to places other than between his legs, where it was now unflagging, and he startled when he felt an arm reach around his shoulders. Sherlock pulled John in to face him once more, long arms circling, and gazed intently—almost haughtily, even—down at him. John’s face lit up with a warm smile in response.

Almost curiously, Sherlock raised one of his hands and brushed a gloved thumb across John’s cheek as though sweeping away an eyelash, and John felt himself turn a brilliant pink. It was harder to breathe, but he didn’t look away. His smile faded as his friend continued to regard him in a calculating way, so intense and personal somehow.

Finally there was the purr of a rumbling engine nearby, and Sherlock and John tumbled out of the frosty air and into a warm back seat. As soon as their doors were shut, instructions given, and seatbelts taken care of, they settled back and looked at one another. John knew Sherlock’s mind—the mind behind those eyes, shadowed yet luminous in the dark—must be racing, but if he was deducing or planning he stayed absolutely quiet about it. He pulled off his glove and reached for John’s hand to lace their fingers together. For the rest of the ride Sherlock merely toyed with John’s hand, stroking sensuously between his fingers, running his thumb over the inside of his palm, and once even pressing his lips against the skin in something not quite a kiss, his eyes falling shut. John just watched, hypnotized.

~~~

The hotel was nice. Like, really nice. Everything tall and marble and gleaming. Sherlock was apparently pulling no punches on Mycroft’s credit card.

They still hadn’t said a word since leaving the restaurant. John followed Sherlock to the elevator, and no sooner had the doors closed than Sherlock was advancing on him in the empty space, backing him against the side and caging him in with his arms, his coat, his unnatural green eyes searching John’s back and forth. And then John was being kissed, and kissed, and Sherlock was exhaling into his mouth. John slid his hands under Sherlock’s coat to cup his arse and draw him in tight so each ended up with one leg pressed against the other’s crotch. That was when it became obvious that this was about to spiral out of control in ways they’d only dreamt about, one floor apart from each other, hard and slick and in denial in their beds at 221b.

Sherlock kissed along John’s jaw to his ear, where he began to whisper things that took John precariously close to the edge, especially with Sherlock’s thigh pressing sweetly against his erection. Questions he didn’t particularly sound like he needed an answer to, like “Do you really want me to fuck you, then?” and “How hard will you come for me if I do it, John?” to which John was only able to respond by gasping, his fingers tangling in his friend’s dark curls.

Sherlock’s payback, in other words, in the form of the longest elevator ride _in bloody history._

Sherlock pulled away so swiftly as the elevator stilled and the doors opened that John just blinked, dazed. He managed to gather himself enough to follow the striking silhouette down the dreamlike atmosphere of the shadowy hallway, though he did have to jog a little to keep up.

The keycard buzzed the lock open and Sherlock, not tired yet of manhandling John, pulled him into the room. John used the momentum to throw him off guard, and this time Sherlock was the one being pressed against a wall while John kissed him hungrily and proceeded to make quick work of the buttons down the front of Sherlock’s shirt. As soon as Sherlock’s arms were free of his sleeves he was tugging John’s jumper off and pulling him close, their bare chests meeting, hot skin against hot skin.

John created enough of a gap between them to ghost his thumb down Sherlock’s breastbone, and the other man’s nipples peaked with anticipation. John leaned in to swipe the tip of his tongue over one pink nub, making sure to make eye contact as he did. 

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, a warning look in his eyes as his breath came harshly through his nose.

“Sorry,” John murmured. “That’s not where you want my tongue, is it?” and he sank to his knees. Sherlock fumbled with his zip and, with John’s help, made quick work of getting his pants out of the way. John took just a moment to admire the fullness of Sherlock’s long, rosy cock. He felt a flash of possessiveness as he gently grabbed it by the base to angle it into his mouth and take him all in. 

While he had never been all the way with a man, John had one army buddy with whom he’d had a strict “oral only” relationship. He’d had lots of practice doing exactly this, and it showed.

Sherlock made a little sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and his hands went to rest on the back of John’s head as he was worked over so slowly and sinfully that all he could do was pant and shake his head for several minutes, gently bucking his hips into the slick suction.

Then John picked up the pace, swiping copious precome from the tip of Sherlock’s cock with the point of his tongue and stroking the base with the tight circle of his fingers, palming Sherlock’s testicles at the same time. The obscene wet noises of their act filled the room, effectively making Sherlock lose his mind. “Yes, suck me, John…that’s so good….” was followed by a heavy, shaky breath.

John hummed his appreciation and reached down to unzip his own jeans to take the pressure off.

“S-stop,” Sherlock stuttered weakly, gently pushing John away. 

John leaned back on his heels and regarded Sherlock expectantly, his eyes full of predatory heat.

“Oh the bed. Right now.” Sherlock was panting and running his fingers through his sweaty curls. John wanted to stare at him all night, but turned quickly to obey and chose the king bed closest to the bathroom by default. He shed his jeans and pants and kneeled on the mattress, any shyness from the restaurant having long since evaporated. His cock was red and throbbing with anticipation. 

Sherlock turned away to his luggage for a moment and unzipped one of the bags, drawing out a clear bottle. Then he strode back to him and gave him a swift push without warning. John let out a little cry of surprise as he tumbled backward, and in a swift series of maneuvers Sherlock shed the rest of his clothing, threw them across the room, and hauled John’s legs up on his shoulders, dragging him down the bed to eliminate the space between them. 

John, in an effort to appear less gobsmacked, tried for levity. His voice betrayed him by coming out in a croak. “You brought lube?”

Sherlock didn’t smile. “To get myself off. Your dirty talk has been driving me crazy.”

Oh, Christ that was hot. John licked his lips and subconsciously left them parted as he stared up at Sherlock, who was currently slicking one finger confidently.

It occurred to John that he had something he really should say. “Um, Sherlock…I…I’ve never….”

His friend stooped down and John was silenced by a sudden, feathery kiss on his lips. “It’ll be easy,” Sherlock murmured. “It’s us.”

As sweet as that was, John almost laughed out loud. Since when was anything about _them_ ever _easy?_ But it made sense instinctually. Enough sense that instead of laughing, John cupped the back of Sherlock’s head and deepened the kiss until it was rough and bordered on obscene. _I wonder,_ John thought distantly, _if he knows how fucking in love with him I am._ Any other time the thought might have made him nervous, but there were far too many chemicals in his bloodstream for it to do anything more than thrill him at that moment.

He felt Sherlock’s hand move down between them, one long finger deftly circling his most intimate opening. Sherlock nipped John’s bottom lip and eased the very tip of the digit into him. “Okay?” he breathed.

John nodded rapidly. Yeah, he was. He was better than okay. He was practically delirious with lust.

Sherlock knelt between John’s legs and caressed the older man’s cock with just the palm of his hand, a feeling so novel that John forgot what else was being done to him. Sherlock’s finger slipped in to the halfway mark, pressing gradually through the resistance of the tight ring of muscle. 

It was a strange sensation; it burned, and there was an almost uncomfortable fullness he wasn’t used to. John squirmed a bit. He wanted this, but he suddenly wondered if he was going to be able to enjoy it. It was just so…different.

Sherlock gently tightened his grip on John’s throbbing length and gave him several languid strokes, making John close his eyes and groan. The finger inside him pumped slowly in and out to the timing of Sherlock’s strokes, and John let out a long exhale. “Mmmm, fuck.” Who the hell cared if the new sensation was odd: it was Sherlock, and Sherlock was evidently going to make him come his brains out. 

The next thing he knew, Sherlock’s finger was all the way inside him and a second finger was being slicked and added. Sherlock watched what he was doing intently, every so often flicking his gaze up to John’s face. John stared back helplessly, memorizing the sight, memorizing the smoldering way Sherlock was regarding him. The knowledge that Sherlock would shortly bury his cock in him made him leak a glistening puddle against his own stomach. It was the hottest foreplay he’d ever experienced.

Sherlock spent several minutes scissoring his fingers, gently stretching the tight pink hole. The very instant John began to feel tortured with anticipation, Sherlock rubbed his prostate gently. 

_“Uuuhhh fuck,”_ John cried out, bucking his hips up and shaking all over.

Sherlock rose over him and, resting his free left hand on the bed at the curve of John’s neck, quietly shushed him and kissed him soothingly. John responded as though he was on fire, nipping at Sherlock’s lips and whispering, “Fuck, fuck, oh God… _Sherlock_ , I…I….”

“Yes, John?” his friend whispered.

 _“Please,”_ John moaned, swallowing back what he really wanted to say.

“Please…” Sherlock softly licked John’s upper lip and teased his prostate again. “What?”

“ _Shit_ , Fuck me Sherlock. _Fuck me so hard please oh fucking_ God!” 

Sherlock traced the tip of his nose along John’s cheek, finally adding a third finger, and John began to pant. “I don’t know,” the detective murmured. “Maybe I should tease you more, the way you’ve been teasing me….” Sherlock’s rapid breathing was giving him away, however. He was as close to the edge of his control as John was, and there was no slowing either of them down.

Any feeling of discomfort or strangeness had given way to sheer, delirious pleasure, and all John could do in response was wrap his hand around Sherlock’s wrist and thrust himself further back onto those torturous fingers.

For a moment they both lost their minds. Sherlock fingered John so hard and fast that it appeared things would end that way. John grasped the sheets with both fists, panting and letting out a long string of obscene dialogue.

Suddenly, Sherlock regained his senses. He swallowed hard and pulled back enough to stare into John’s eyes as he removed his fingers. John heard the cap of the lubricant click and intimated, from the slight jostling and motion of Sherlock’s right arm, that he was slicking his erection. And then John felt the smooth head between his legs, nudging persistently at his arsehole, and he gazed up at his friend as Sherlock breached him slowly and paused, eyes closed as he attempted to gather himself. After a moment he brought his hands to John’s waist and pulled him closer as he arched his hips, slowly thrusting in further. It burned, but wasn’t intolerable. And god, it was the sexiest thing either of them had ever felt as he slowly gave around Sherlock inch by aching inch.

Sherlock reached over John’s head suddenly and grabbed something, and then he was shoving a pillow under John’s hips to improve the angle. 

“Touch yourself.” Sherlock was no longer whispering, and his voice was deep and rich in the dim room, with a hint of uncontrolled lust around the edges. “I want you to jerk off hard the way I’ve had to do every time you’ve teased me over the last few days.”

Unable to do anything but comply, John wrapped a hand around his turgid dick and gave one long stroke. As he did, Sherlock pulled back and thrust into him as hard as he could without warning. John hissed in a breath through his teeth, feeling sweat break out all over his body.

“This is your punishment for torturing me, John,” Sherlock continued, thrusting shallowly. “I’ve been living with you for years. Wanting you, watching you date other people, deducing all your unsatisfying sex. If you think I haven’t cultivated an absolutely _filthy_ mind over that period of time, you…are…mistaken.” He punctuated the last several growled words with hard thrusts, forcing a moan out of John with each. The next thrust was slower, Sherlock rolling his hips and driving slowly against John’s prostate again, making him shudder so hard the whole bed seemed to vibrate.

 _Punishment._ Sherlock deducing his sex life. Sherlock was right: John had had a lot of unsatisfying sex over the last few years. For him, at least. Right now he was mewling the way he’d only ever heard his own one-night-stands do after he’d had too much to drink and tried to work out his pent-up frustrations on them, pulling every trick he knew in a vain attempt to lose himself in the act as well.

“I thought about what they were doing wrong. What I would do differently to you. What you would taste like.” Sherlock kept alternating his pace, maintaining unpredictability, occasionally nailing John to the bed with a particularly deep thrust. “I’d lie in my bed and get off to the thought of you coming down my throat and telling me I was the only one who knew how to suck you off. You can’t tell me you’ve never done the same,” he demanded.

“You know…you know I have,” John panted, dangerously close to the edge. “I’m going to come Sherlock, I’m going to….”

Sherlock pulled John’s hand off his erection and held his wrist to the bed, a mischievous light flashing in his eyes. “Yes,” he hissed. “But first you’re going to tell me about the last fantasy you had of me.”

John managed to grin even as Sherlock continued to fuck him into near mindlessness. All censors gone, it poured out of him. “The other night, after the Christmas party…we went home and I got into bed and I heard you… _yes right there…_ heard you in your room…a slight moan, the sound of your hand…I didn’t know if it was for me, but in all the years we’ve lived together I’ve rarely heard you so I thought maybe… _uunnhh!_ ”

Sherlock had just driven hard into his sweet spot. John’s cock was leaking copiously. In another moment he was going to explode. He watched in disbelief as Sherlock licked a long stripe down his own hand and grasped him, stroking him each time he sank in all the way. 

“I came thinking of you bending me over my bed and fucking me until I made a mess of the…s-sheets!” he finished desperately.

Sherlock had slid his free hand over John’s chest to pinch his nipples lightly, and that ended John. He arched helplessly and came with a cry, some of it landing on him, some on Sherlock’s hand, the rest painting Sherlock’s belly in long slippery stripes.

Only seconds later Sherlock followed, pulsing hotly into his arse, filling him in bursts. By the time it was over they were curled into each other, clinging and panting and kissing, tongues pressing, their mouths salty with the taste of sweat.

Sherlock collapsed beside John and they were each silent for a while except their harsh breathing. John turned onto his side toward Sherlock, feeling semen leaking from him slowly, slicking between his arsecheeks. He winced a bit.

Sherlock likewise turned toward him, expression strangely vulnerable. He slid his arm around John’s shoulders and they nuzzled in toward each other, closing their eyes and mutually sighing. “That was amazing,” John muttered into the humid darkness between them.

Sherlock hummed.

They dozed for a while. Eventually John woke up enough to get out of bed and clean himself off. He brought back a flannel to wipe Sherlock down with, which woke the other man. John’s well-meaning ablutions of Sherlock devolved into a rather enthusiastic blowjob, and within minutes John was swallowing down a copious load.

“Wow,” he murmured after a he slid back up Sherlock’s body, finally dropping the flannel (which he’d never managed to let go of) over the side of the bed. “Didn’t think you could have that much in you still.”

It was dim, but John saw the look of subtle embarrassment that flashed over Sherlock’s face, and he said quickly, “No. I’m not complaining. That was absolutely amazing, and perfect.” He kissed his flatmate thoroughly and was kissed quite tenderly in return. Afterward, he lay stroking his hand over Sherlock’s long pale chest soothingly. “Sherlock?”

“Yes John?” Sherlock murmured, sounding warm and sated.

“I um….” He felt his heart pound into a gallop in his chest and swallowed some nervous nausea. “I think I’m pretty much in love with you. Well…I know I am, that is. And if you don’t feel that way that’s fine, though this could get pretty awkward, so if you’re not—you know—I’ll work it through.” he laughed nervously. 

Sherlock was silent.

“Endorphins, sorry…loose lips,” John said quietly, feeling horror make his body flush hot.

He heard Sherlock shift a bit, but was afraid to look at him. And then, suddenly, a hand was caressing his cheek. “John?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Are you through dating feeble-minded, vapid, conscientious women?”

John laughed, so pleased his chest tightened with joy and practically turned the sound into a hiccup. He felt himself burn red with self-consciousness and was glad it was so dark. “Yeah, Sherlock.”

“You’re not going to stop sending me dirty texts, are you?”

“No, safe to say I’m not.”

“Then I love you too.” A knuckle gently pressed his chin so he turned his head, and his best friend/flatmate/love of his life put an end to the conversation with a long kiss and a soothing cuddle, twining his limbs around John’s under the soft hotel duvet.

~~~

A week later, when Mycroft called with some pointed questions about certain charges on his credit card (tickets to Edinburgh, an expensive dinner, an even more expensive hotel replete with room service charges including champagne and strawberries), Sherlock handed the phone to John. It was only fair, Sherlock told him, since it was all his fault.

~~~


End file.
